


Twenty-Two

by thecommodore_squid (orphan_account)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Basically Everyone is a Veteran, Choose Your Adventure, Depression, Hopeful Ending, Is This SamSteve?, Is This SteveBucky?, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Service Dogs, Suicide Attempt, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, War Veteran Sam Wilson, War Veteran Steve Rogers, Who Knows?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 09:59:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8528749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thecommodore_squid
Summary: “This is Lucky,” Clint said when a dog got between him and Natasha. Lucky’s vest was bright, like desert mornings and night explosions.“Does he help?” Natasha asked.Clint pressed his hands flat on the counter behind him. “He saved my life.”Natasha looked at Steve, her expression fierce. Steve resisted the urge to yank down his sleeves. Instead, he dug his nails into the puckered skin on his forearms.AKAAn AU in which Steve is a veteran just trying to survive (or not).





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's Veteran's Day.
> 
> I want to thank them for their service. So. Thank you so much.
> 
> This fic deals with some heavy content, but the only way to go from rock bottom is up.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> In spite everything that's happened last week, don't forget about veterans.

* * *

Natasha was jiggling her leg.

 

Steve tried to ignore it as he stared blankly at the television and she stared intently at him, but for fuck’s _sake_.

 

He flexed his fingers.

 

“What am I supposed to do?” Natasha finally whispered hoarsely, the first to crack.

 

“Nothing,” Steve whispered back.

 

Natasha looked down at the rough stitches on Steve’s forearms. “This is me threatening to check you into a mental rehabilitation center.”

 

“No,” Steve snapped, finally looking her in the eye.

 

“Well, what am I supposed to do?”

 

 _Maybe just let me fucking die next time_ , was what he wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut.

 

“What am I supposed to do?” Natasha said again, and this time her voice was small and fragile.

 

“Nothing,” Steve said again, trying for a gentle tone. “Nothing.”

 

Natasha bowed her head.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“He’s got depression and PTSD,” Steve heard Natasha saying to the doctor.

 

Banner shot a frown in Steve’s direction. “Has he been diagnosed?”

 

“Not officially, but.”

 

“But,” Banner agreed sympathetically. He nodded a few times. “I’m going to highly recommend some sort of inpatient therapy program. I’ll grab some brochures for you.”

 

Natasha sagged a little bit. “Thank you.”

 

Banner paused by the foot of Steve’s bed, and Steve struggled not to fidget. “It’s—“ he began, swallowing roughly. “It gets better. With therapy.”

 

“Fuck off,” Steve whispered.

 

Banner nodded again. “Yep. About what I’d expect. Keep fighting, Captain.”

 

Steve glared at Natasha, and she glared back.

 

* * *

 

 

“Do you want to keep the bandages on?” Natasha asked, deliberately casual as Steve slumped his way into his dumpy studio of an apartment.

 

In answer, Steve threw the gauze in her direction halfheartedly.

 

He sat down on the floor. Stared at the jagged lines he’d cut into his veins.

 

Natasha sat down next to him. “Talk to me?”

 

Steve sighed, closing his eyes. “Sorry I put you through that,” he mumbled.

 

“Steve.”

 

“Don’t put me in rehab, please,” Steve begged, voice cracking. “I’m not crazy. I’m just—I just—“

 

Natasha grabbed his hand, and Steve tucked his chin down to his chest. He took a shuddering breath.

 

“I’m sorry. I love you.”

 

“I know you do,” Natasha said quietly. “God, c’mere.”

 

Steve curled into a ball and folded himself into Natasha’s lap, and Natasha started running her fingers up and down his back.

 

“You scare me,” she said.

 

“I scare me too.”

 

“Don’t you get sick of that?”

 

Steve clenched his fists. “Yes. God, that’s why I—“

 

“Don’t you dare,” Natasha hissed. “Killing yourself isn’t the only way to stop being scared.”

 

“Sure,” Steve said hollowly.

 

“Give me a month,” Natasha said. “I think I have an idea. Please, just. Gimme a month.”

 

Steve closed his eyes. “Sure.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The funny thing was that it wasn’t funny at all.

 

Natasha dragged Steve to this tiny shop in the middle of Brooklyn, and the man at the front desk said his name was Clint and smiled with the distance that Steve saw in the mirror some days, and he dropped his pen three times during their brief conversation. Natasha picked it up for him. Clint’s hands still shook, and the third time, he deliberately laid the pen down flat.

 

“This is Lucky,” Clint said when a dog got between him and Natasha. Lucky’s vest was bright, like desert mornings and night explosions.

 

“Does he help?” Natasha asked.

 

Clint pressed his hands flat on the counter behind him. “He saved my life.”

 

Natasha looked at Steve, her expression fierce. Steve resisted the urge to yank down his sleeves. Instead, he dug his nails into the puckered skin on his forearms.

 

“My partner’s in the back chillin’ with the dogs. Wanna check ‘em out?”

 

Clint had big purple hearing aids on either side of his head, and his hands shook with a fine tremor that had Steve swallowing convulsively. He walked backwards to keep Steve and Natasha in his sights, and Lucky walked ahead, at Clint’s six.

 

Clint’s partner sat on the floor with his back against some crates, his hand—his only hand—twisted into a German Shepherd’s fur. “I’m Bucky,” he said with a tired but genuine smile, strands of long and dark hair curling around his cheekbones, “And this is Rosalind.”

 

“Rosalind?” Natasha echoed.

 

Bucky shrugged. “After Rosalind Franklin.”

 

“Bucky is a nerd,” Clint added helpfully. “His cat’s name is Nikola Tesla.”

 

Bucky flushed but jutted his chin out. “Don’t talk about Tesla like that.”

 

Steve looked away.

 

Clint went back out front and Natasha observed quietly as Bucky introduced Steve to several dogs, and it was just so damn stupid. This was stupid. Natasha’s last-ditch plan to get him off suicide watch. It was—

 

Fuck.

 

Steve took a shockingly steady breath and raked his nails down his forearm. He tried not to notice when Natasha flinched.

 

“This is Devil Dinosaur, and he’s a mutt,” Bucky was saying.

 

“Is Dinosaur his last name?” Steve asked quietly, and it was the first thing he’d said since entering the shop, he realized.

 

Bucky blinked in surprise, as if just noticing that Steve had the ability to speak. “I never really thought of it that way.”

 

“How’d you think of it?”

 

Bucky grinned, and the expression was a little strained, but it was nice to look at. “Sorta like a hyphenated name, I dunno. Like. Mary-Kate. Or something.”

 

“Devil-Dinosaur is five syllables,” Steve observed.

 

“You can call him Devil. I doubt he’d care.”

 

This was stupid. This was so stupid. Steve dropped back into silence, remembering that he wanted to die.

 

“Would you be able to take care of a dog?” Bucky asked evenly, and Steve looked up sharply, eyes narrowing. Bucky held up his hand. “Whoa, man. It’s okay if you’re not there yet. But, like. Clint and I are responsible for these dogs, and we can’t give you a dog if the dog is going to suffer under your care or lack thereof.”

 

And Bucky did have a point. Steve couldn’t even take care of his squad. Or himself. He looked at Natasha. “This is—“

 

“I’m staying at his place,” Natasha said, which was true. “If he has an episode, I’m still around to be responsible.”

 

Bucky nodded, losing some tension. “Okay, that’s fine. For now. We’ll figure something out.” He turned back to Steve, and Steve shifted uncomfortably. “Devil Dinosaur’s only half-trained. He, like, sits and shit, but you two are gonna have to come in for a training course twice a week.”

 

“Great,” Natasha said brightly. “How much?”

 

“Free,” Bucky said, shrugging. “We’re non-for-profit.”

 

And Steve blinked and suddenly a big black soft animal was pushing his head into Steve’s hand, asking for pets, and Steve was numbly rubbing the dog’s ears, and the dog was sighing.

 

Bucky and Clint gave Natasha and Steve both their personal and professional phone numbers. “Call us if anything happens.”

 

And then Steve had a dog.

 

* * *

 

 

Devil looked around at Steve’s tiny apartment like he didn’t know what to make of it. Steve sat down on the floor. Devil sat down half-on his lap.

 

The weight was. Surprisingly nice.

 

“He’s cute,” Natasha noted. “What kinda mix do you think he is?”

 

“I dunno anything about dogs,” Steve said, and he could barely hear himself over the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

 

Devil licked his hand.

 

* * *

 

 

The nightmares were never the same, but they always followed the same theme.

 

Bright. Cold. Blood.

 

Steve gasped, shuddering, and something cold pressed against his cheek, and he startled.

 

The dog—the—Devil—Devil Dinosaur—his nose pressed into Steve’s skin, and Steve shuddered again and tried to take a breath, and Devil stood up and sat on Steve’s stomach.

 

“Fuck,” Steve whispered, trying not to cry, trying not to dissolve into tears, trying to—to—“Fuck.”

 

Natasha woke up a few minutes later and said nothing while Steve clutched at the dumb fucking dog and cried.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Do you have any medical problems?” Clint asked when Natasha dragged Steve and Devil back to the shop for training or some shit.

 

“What?” Steve said blankly.

 

“I’m deaf,” Clint said. “So we taught Lucky a sorta pseudo sign language. Bucky doesn’t have an arm. So Rosalind can grab him things.” Clint dropped his pen and didn’t look at where it fell. “If you have, like, diabetes, or something like that, we can teach Devil to do something when your blood sugar geos up.”

 

Steve blinked a few times. “I—“

 

Clint waited. Natasha stared at him, her gaze hard. Devil sneezed.

 

He cleared his throat. “I’m deaf in one ear. And I—my leg—knee. My knee.”

 

“Alright. Cool. We can work with that.” Clint picked up his pen and started clicking it rapidly. “Just so you know, there’s a few other folks training their dogs. So. Don’t freak out.”

 

 _Don’t freak out_. Fuck everything.

 

In the back, Bucky was standing next to Rosalind, talking quietly to three other people.

 

Steve scanned the exits. Devil booped Steve’s hand with his nose, and Steve absently scratched his snout.

 

“Hey,” Bucky said when he saw Steve, and everybody turned around to look at him.

 

Steve hunched his shoulders and nodded once.

 

The three other people introduced themselves. Maria Hill had a hard gaze and a ticking jaw. Frank Castle had clenching fists and a tapping foot. And Carol Danvers had a stiff spine and squared shoulders.

 

Facing them, Steve felt small and out of place and welcome all at once.

 

Working with Devil was easier than he’d expected. Devil seemed to like Steve, so that was something. And he’d already been a little bit trained, so it wasn’t like starting from scratch.

 

They worked on bracing. To help Steve stand up if his leg wasn’t cooperating. And Devil seemed—happy—to do it.

 

Natasha came to collect him after a few hours with a coffee and a bagel. Steve gave Devil half the bagel.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a veteran a few streets away from Steve’s apartment.

 

He never—like—begged for money. He was hella unobtrusive and usually just sat against a wall with his dog.

 

Steve always passed him by with a sick feeling in his gut, but today he sat down next to the guy and let Devil inspect the new dog.

 

The man glanced at him. “Hi,” he said suspiciously.

 

“Did the VA fuck you over?” Steve asked.

 

The guy blinked, startled. “Yeah. Plus this fucking dog cost a fortune.” He sounded both bitter and fond, and Steve smiled a little bit. The expression felt unnatural.

 

“I’m Steve,” he said.

 

“Sam,” the guy returned. “Sam Wilson.”

 

“How long’ve you been back?”

 

“Couple years. Didn’t go full hobo ‘til last summer, though. You?”

 

“Few months,” Steve said. Devil stopped sniffing Sam’s dog and sat on Steve’s lap with a huff.

 

“Good luck,” Sam said, and it sounded sincere.

 

Steve nodded. “Yeah. Same to you.” He cleared his throat. “What’s your dog’s name.”

 

“Redwing,” Sam said, and his eyes crinkled. Redwing looked up. “Yours?”

 

“Devil Dinosaur.”

 

Sam laughed, low and rough, and it was a great sound. “Cute.”

 

“Listen,” Steve said. “I don’t have a lot, but.”

 

Sam shook his head. “I don’t need your charity.”

 

Steve passed Sam his gloves anyway. “It’s gonna get cold.” He cleared his throat, looking away. “And—and if you ever need a place to stay—“

 

“You don’t know me,” Sam said, sounding disturbed.

 

“I know,” Steve said quietly. “There’s an empty apartment across the hall from me. I think someone was murdered there, and they still haven’t really cleaned up, so nobody’s bought it.”

 

“You drive a hard bargain,” Sam said sarcastically.

 

“If we can clean it up without my landlord noticing, you could probably squat. Hell, even if she noticed, she may ignore it. She’s a World War II vet.”

 

Sam sighed. “I’ll think about it.” He looked at Steve quizzically. “Why are you being—nice—to me?”

 

Steve shrugged. “I know what it’s like to be ignored,” he said simply.

 

“You don’t, white boy,” Sam said. “Not really.” But his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Thanks, though.”

 

Steve shrugged again. “Yeah.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Maria Hill was the first to talk during training.

 

“It was a drone strike on this town we’d been watching for a few months. I’d worked around the school.” She swallowed convulsively, not looking at anyone, not looking away from her dog, Birdie, as she whispered, “And, well. You know.”

 

A few weeks later, Frank Castle said:

 

“I almost hurt my daughter yesterday.”

 

And then Carol Danvers.

 

“It was my orders, and I sent them to die.”

 

Steve didn’t say anything, but sometimes he caught their eyes lingering on his forearms, and he felt guilty. He felt like he owed something.

 

Bucky explained what happened to his arm on a cold and wet day that had him rubbing his stump. “IED. You know the story. I’m not the first to have my arm blown off for nothing, and I won’t be the last.”

 

“I was next to him,” Clint said. “He pushed me out of the way. I would’ve died. Instead I’m just deaf.” He grinned.

 

Natasha never stayed for the training sessions. “They’re like group therapy or some shit, and I can’t intrude on that.”

 

“You’re a vet too,” Steve said quietly.

 

“You and I both know that my experience is different.”

 

Maybe so. Natasha had been a spy. It got people to distrust her fast.

 

Except Steve, apparently.

 

The day after Devil finally started getting the hand of blocking, Steve said quietly, “I’m the only one left,” and left it at that, not bothering to elaborate for the half-confused, half-sympathetic faces.

 

* * *

 

 

“I got a job at the VA,” Sam said as Steve sat down next to him for their unofficial-but-kinda-official biweekly chat.

 

Steve looked at him weirdly. “But—“

 

“I think the only way to fix the system is from within,” Sam said by way of explanation. “Who knows. Maybe I’ll save enough cash to buy that fucked up apartment in your building.”

 

Steve huffed a laugh, and the sound was unfamiliar.

 

* * *

 

 

Natasha was out of town for the weekend, and Steve had taken out the last gun he’d been able to hide from her. He laid it on the ground in front of him. He stared at it.

 

He ran his fingers over the metal. The metal smelled like blood. Blood. Bright. Cold.

 

The barrel looked like absolution.

 

The thing was, he shouldn’t have been fucking artful about it the first time. He should’ve just gone straight for the artery and have been done with it before Natasha could’ve dragged him to the hospital. But he’d wanted it to look beautiful. Blood. Bright. Beautiful.

 

Suicide wasn’t a goddamn painting though.

 

As if eons away, Devil whimpered. He sat heavily on Steve’s lap.

 

Steve dropped the gun with shaking hands. “Shit,” he said, voice thick. He quickly dismantled the gun and kicked the pieces away. He buried his face in Devil’s fur. “ _Shit_.”

 

Hours later, he laid on his back on the floor, and Devil sat on his chest, and he somehow didn’t feel like he was suffocating.

 

“I shouldn’t even have that gun,” he told Devil conversationally. Devil licked a stripe down his nose.

 

When Natasha got back, he wordlessly handed her the gun, and she wordlessly didn’t let her eyes change to fearful, and Steve sat down with Devil and didn’t move for the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

 

Devil graduated from service dog training with a bright vest.

 

Bright. Blood. Cold.

 

Steve didn’t think about the color.

 

Frank Castle gave Steve a hug and told him they’d watch a baseball game together sometime, and Maria Hill shook his hand and bid him good luck, and Carol Danvers saluted him and made no promises.

 

Natasha asked Clint on a date. Clint dropped his pen while he said yes.

 

Steve hung behind while Bucky fed the rest of the dogs. “I woke up with Nikola Tesla on my face again. Thought I was being suffocated for a few seconds, but nope. That cat’s a bastard.”

 

“I’m allergic to cats,” Steve said.

 

Bucky shot him a tired smile. “You poor deprived thing.”

 

“It’s okay,” Steve offered. He watched Rosalind scope out the shop. “Why do you name your animals after scientists?”

 

“Spurned scientists,” Bucky explained. “Watson and Crick took credit for Rosalind Franklin’s discovery of DNA. And Edison conned Tesla out of his success in electricity because he was more of a business man than a scientist, and Tesla didn’t know how to sell his better idea.”

 

“Oh,” Steve said. “Why name your pets after them?”

 

“I dunno,” Bucky said, straightening a little bit. “I just like them.” He scratched Rosalind’s ears. “If I get another pet, I’m gonna name ‘em Bhaskaracharya.”

 

“Who?”

 

“The guy who discovered gravity.”

 

“Of course.” There was a semi-awkward pause. “Five syllables,” Steve said.

 

“What?”

 

“Bhas-kar-ach-ar-ya. Five syllables.”

 

Bucky’s eyes crinkled. “Dev-il Di-no-saur.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Check it out,” Sam was saying. He and Steve were sitting in the library because neither of them had money for a laptop. Or wifi. “This is the guy.”

 

“The prince of Wakanda?” Steve said. “He visited the VA?”

 

Sam nodded fervently. “No idea why. But, like. Look. Look at his face. Isn’t he beautiful.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“ _Wow_.”

 

“Do you think he’s gonna donate a lotta money?”

 

Sam leaned back and ran a hand through his short hair. “A man can dream, my dude.”

 

* * *

 

 

Steve ran into Bucky at PetSmart.

 

“Tesla chewed through half his toys as a sign of resistance to his new diet,” Bucky explained.

 

Steve smiled a little bit. “Devil’s running low on food.”

 

They wound up in Central Park afterwards because Devil was insistent on a long walk and Rosalind was happy to agree.

 

Steve absently traced the scars on his forearms with his nails, pressing enough to leave red marks, but not enough to draw blood. Bucky was watching him carefully.

 

“You can ask,” Steve said. “I may not answer.”

 

“How long ago was it?”

 

That was an easy question. “A few weeks before Nat forced me to get Devil.”

 

“Have you tried since?”

 

Steve frowned. Did the gun situation count? He shrugged. “Not sure.”

 

Bucky winced. “A guy in my unit killed himself a few years ago. He was drunk. Hanged himself on his belt.”

 

Steve hummed. “Not really my style.”

 

“What’s your style, then?

 

Cold. Bright. Blood. Steve shrugged.

 

“What happened to you?” Bucky asked quietly.

 

“Classified,” Steve said blandly.

 

“Really?”

 

“Mostly.” He took a deep breath. “My squad. All of them are—“

 

“Dead?”

 

Steve nodded.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be,” Steve muttered, shrugging restlessly. Devil turned around and stopped to lean against Steve’s legs.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam was quiet.

 

“What?” Steve asked softly.

 

Sam took a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s getting real hard to be patriotic these days,” he said, and didn’t elaborate.

 

“Yeah,” Steve whispered, glancing at the television playing the news on mute. “It is.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was hard to be patriotic and it was hard to get out of bed and it was hard to make himself eat and it was hard to leave his apartment and it was hard to open his mouth and say things and it was hard to think and it was hard to breathe and it was hard to not jump off the Brooklyn Bridge whenever he passed.

 

* * *

 

 

“We changed the world,” Sam said, “once upon a time.”

 

“What do you mean?” Steve asked.

 

“I mean we saved lives and we took lives, and we changed the world, but we _only_ changed the world.”

 

“What?”

 

“We didn’t do anything that means anything,” Sam said. “There are still fires in the sky, and people are still so scared that they hurt other people, and people hate us for trying to save them, and it’s all the same even though we changed it. We changed it, but we didn’t change the things that matter.”

 

“Oh,” Steve said.

 

Sam’s eyes were hard. “I’m gonna do it someday for someone. Even if it’s just one person. I’m gonna change the world.”

 

“You’ve changed mine,” Steve said quietly, and Sam dropped into silence.

 

He squeezed Steve’s shoulder. “Mine too.”

 

Steve choked down the urge to cry.

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky sat next to Steve on the porch to his apartment, and Devil and Rosalind didn’t waver from position, and Steve felt—

 

Not better. Not like it was easier. But.

 

“Devil would be upset if I killed myself.”

 

Bucky went very still. “Yeah,” he finally agreed.

 

It didn’t feel like standing up, but it felt like rolling over and starting to think about it.

 

* * *

 

 

Natasha stopped spending every night as Steve’s apartment.

 

Sam moved in across the hall.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve sat on his roof and thought about his future and thought about his past.

 

Bright. Cold. Blood.

 

The sun made him think of the flash of light that was the end of the beginning; the permanent stains in his eyelids as he stared at the ceiling and prayed for it all to be over, finally, forever.

 

The wind hurt his nose. Made his eyes water with the bite. And he remembered his skin going numb, trembling even though he couldn’t feel it. The very last moments of delirious consciousness before icy eyelashes drifted shut. The bite of the frozen metal in his hands.

 

He looked at his forearms and saw the blood stubbornly trapped beneath his skin. He looked at his knee and remembered the squelch of muscle and bone when they’d shot it, barrel of a shotgun pressed right against it. There was blood for days and blood for seconds and blood for years, and Steve had it all.

 

It hurt.

 

“Twenty-two vets kill themselves every day,” Steve told Devil.

 

Devil gave him his big sad eyes and curled into a ball, dropping his weight solidly on Steve’s lap.

 

Steve took a deep breath. “I would’ve been one of them without you.” He wiped his eyes. “Still may be.”

 

Devil couldn’t talk, but maybe that was a good thing, because Steve didn’t really want to talk. Not yet. Not for a while.

 

Bright. He touched Devil’s vest.

 

Cold. He tucked his fingers under Devil’s belly.

 

Blood. Devil’s heartbeat was steady against Steve’s knee.

 

And he watched the sunset with his dog and started to consider the fact that it didn’t have to hurt his eyes for the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> [I'm on tumblr.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thecommodoresquid)


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